Chapter One #2
A swift glance around the cluttered living room showed him little had changed since he’d last seen her.
The living room was still crammed with heavy wooden furniture.
Tall bookcases held an assortment of volumes, ivory figurines, and assorted knick-knacks.
A dozen colorful throw pillows were scattered across the high-backed sofa.
The old dark-green carpet had been replaced by a plush gray.
A large, black cat lay curled up on a pink pillow beside the fireplace.
A one-legged crow sat on a perch, watching him through black, beady eyes.
Izabela gestured toward the sofa. When he sat down, she settled herself in a large rocking chair covered by a brightly colored, fringed throw. As soon as she was seated, the cat jumped on her lap and went to sleep.
Izabela was a tiny thing, with a wealth of golden hair streaked with silver.
Her eyes were an unusual shade of brown with yellow flecks.
The image he saw now was the one she showed to the world.
She usually wore a long-sleeved shirt over a colorful, ankle-length skirt.
But at this time of the night, she wore a blue cotton robe over a long, white nightgown.
Her feet were bare. She was a black witch, rumored to be the most powerful in the country.
Her gaze met his. “I have been expecting you, Rylan Saintcrow.”
“Is that right?”
She nodded. “I have felt your distress these past weeks. What is it that worries you after so many centuries?”
“I don’t know how to explain it.” Rising, he paced the floor. “I’m on edge all the time. I’m feeling the same sense of being out of control that I felt when I was first turned. It’s taking all the self-control I have to keep from killing my prey. I’m afraid–”
“You? Afraid?” Izabela scoffed. “I do not believe it.”
“Not for myself, dammit! For Kadie. For those I hunt. I have an almost overwhelming urge to rip out someone’s throat and drink until I’m sated with their blood.” He paused, his gaze going to the pulse throbbing in the witch’s throat.
“Do not even think about it.”
A bark of laughter filled the room. “You’re safe.” No vampire willingly drank the blood of a witch. It was bitter beyond belief.
“What do you want of me?” Izabela asked.
“I don’t know.” Dropping back down on the sofa, he stared at the floor, his hands balled into fists. “Heaven help me, I don’t know. A spell, a potion, a talisman, something that will calm the monster that’s inside of me fighting to get out.”
Rising, the witch reached into the pocket of her robe and withdrew a small glass vial.
Frowning, Saintcrow looked up, his eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding me?”
“This one is not for services rendered,” she said with a wry smile. “I need to examine your blood for possible impurities or anomalies.”
With a curt nod, Saintcrow bit into his left wrist and held it over the bottle. His blood was dark and thick.
When the vial was filled, Izabela corked it and set it on the mantel. “How is Kincaid?”
Saintcrow shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a few months. You’ll let me know if you find anything...unusual,” he said, gaining his feet.
“Of course,” she replied. And smiled. “The usual payment will be due at that time.”
He nodded. Her usual price for services rendered was a vial of blood.
He had visited her many times through the years.
Each visit had cost him. He had asked her once what she did with his blood, but she had refused to answer.
But he was certain she drank it. Vampire blood had long been known to heal sickness and injury and prolong life.
Izabela walked him to the door. “Try not to worry, vampire,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “I have grown rather fond of you over the years. You have been most...entertaining.”
With a shake of his head, Saintcrow left the house. Entertaining, he thought with wry amusement. He had been called a lot of things through the centuries, but never that.
~ * ~
Izabela stared at the bottle of dark-red blood.
Saintcrow’s blood. She drank it from time to time.
As any witch worth her salt knew, vampire blood slowed the aging process and extended life.
It was also capable of healing the sick.
She knew of three dark witches who hunted vampires and killed them for their blood.
She understood why, but she didn’t condone such a practice.
She knew of another dark witch who kept a vampire imprisoned in a box made of silver.
She bled him whenever she needed blood. And brought him prey when he needed to feed.
Again, Izabela found that reprehensible.
Thus far, thanks to Saintcrow and Kincaid, she had never had to stoop to such despicable behavior.
Odd that Saintcrow felt he was losing control after so many centuries. Generally, vampires hunted less the longer they survived.
Going up to the room where she practiced her craft, she pulled her favorite grimoire from the shelf. Settling into the chair by the window, she opened the heavy tome and thumbed through page after page of spells and enchantments, nostrums and poisons.
Two hours later, she frowned as she put the book aside and glanced at her bookcase. She had dozens of spellbooks. She sucked in a deep breath and blew it out in a long sigh, then rose and plucked another volume from the shelf.
If what she was looking for wasn’t in one of her books, then it probably didn’t exist.
~ * ~
Saintcrow stood on the witch’s porch, debating whether to go back home, when an old memory took him to the site of the last battle he had fought during the Crusades.
That had been a bloody time. He had been one of the many who had made the long journey to the Holy Land to reclaim Jerusalem from Muslim rule.
He had been on the field of battle when he sustained a mortal wound, though he hadn’t known it at the time.
When he roused, his armor was gone, his clothing was filthy and blood-stained. And he was ravenous. But not for food.
Even now, centuries later, he remembered the excruciating pain, the confusion of not knowing what he hungered for, until he found three men hunkered around a campfire.
One whiff of their blood and he knew what he wanted.
When they saw him up close, they drew their weapons, but they were no match for his rage or his strength.
He killed them all and satisfied his unholy hunger.
He killed dozens, perhaps hundreds of people, before he learned to control his hunger and his preternatural power.
Centuries passed before he learned the name of the vampire who had turned him.
Centuries before he saw her again. Eleni.
She had threatened Kadie’s life. And he had destroyed her.
He still felt a faint bit of regret for that.
If Eleni had not turned him on the field of battle, he would have died of his wounds centuries before Kadie was born.
Kadie, Kadie. She was the best thing in his life.
The only thing that mattered.
His only reason for living.